


Maybe It's The Alcohol

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, Grantaire being a little shit, How do you tag these things, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, but not really??, mentions of Eponine being a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:19:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2157183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has the bladder of a walnut, doesn't have any toilet paper in his stall, and he's very, very drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe It's The Alcohol

It was a stupid issue of his, but dammit, Grantaire was fucking determined to never use public restrooms. He wasn't a neat freak by any means, not at all--his own apartment was atrociously disorganized half the time, and desperately cluttered the other--so the usual grunge and grime didn't unnerve him. If the stench had been a problem, he'd have had many more fights with Éponine for letting her cat shit all over the floors every other day. (His floors, by the way. The apartment might as well be hers as well, though, considering how often she spent the night. Heaven knew how much that would help his rent situation.)

No. He just didn't like feeling that other guys were checking out Little R while he tried to take a whizz. 

Honestly, that was the sole reason.

Grantaire didn't understand why others felt the need to take the urinal right next to his own, because couldn't they see the three open stations they could choose from? Why stand so close? It was more irritating than anything. 

So he made it an unspoken rule that bathroom breaks were before he went out, and after he got home. Usually, this had worked out just fine. 

Usually. 

However, as it was a Friday night, and Grantaire was prone to go drinking on such evenings (Most evenings. Every evening. And no, he did not have a drinking problem, despite what Ép or Jehan might say.) and given the fact that he had a bladder the size of a squirrel, an should have stopped after three drinks, he just might not have been able to make it home in time to relieve his bowels. He would not piss himself at a bar again, and call Éponine to pick him up. 

Though to be fair, that was one time only, several years ago, and she had no right to hold that against him to this day. It was for reasons such as this that Grantaire sometimes questioned his taste in friends. 

With that in mind, Grantaire forced himself off of the bar stool and stumbled to the restroom, finding every urinal to be empty. Thank God. 

Did he risk it? After all, with nobody in here, he could have had a quick pee, in and out of the restroom, and would not have had to risk Little R's dignity at all. 

The answer was quite obvious. 

Not on his life. 

That just left the stalls then, he supposed, most of which were empty as well. Grantaire let himself into the one at the very end, locked the door, and laid out a toilet cover on what was probably a less-than-sanitary seat. Gross. 

Fifteen blissful seconds later, and R was just about ready to--

\--go. No. No, no, no no no! 

Toilet paper.

Where was it? 

Glancing around frantically, and immediately cursing his weak bladder for getting him here in the first place, R was dismayed to notice that there was, in fact, no extra rolls laying around.

Stranded on a toilet. Probably not as embarrassing as peeing his pants, but still, there was no texting Ép to get him out of this one. Not this time. 

Grantaire released a litany of swears before tapering off into silence, listening as the restroom door opened. Footsteps. Someone settling into the stall beside him. 

He heard a cough in the neighboring stall, some...restroom noises...and then rustling. Had he been any more drunk, he simply would have gotten up and walked around in his gross jeans instead of asking for help. Had he been any more sober, he probably wouldn't even have had the nerve to speak. 

Good thing he was perfectly tipsy, then. Gathering courage, Grantaire cleared his throat. 

"Hey," he called awkwardly, voice slightly rough in his embarrassment, slightly slurred from the alcohol. 

The rustling noise stopped. There was a pause. He could practically feel the apprehension. After all, how many people tried to make small tack with the fellow taking a dump in the next stall? Already, R felt foolish. 

"Hi," came a cautious voice, and holy shit, how could a man make a single syllable sound so smooth? Like, his voice was actually butter, it was so rich. He could have been one of those folks that did voice-overs on commercials or sang in churches, he sounded that smooth. He could have literally recited nothing but the nutrition values off of a box of cereal, and he'd have had Grantaire's attention. Holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck. 

"...hello? Was that it?" The man said again, just as Grantaire was thinking something along the lines of 'mm, yeah, tell me how many grams of sugar are in Honey Nut Cheerios, fuck yeah, you sexy fucking...' Oh. Fuck. 

Doing his best not to embarrass himself further, Grantaire said, "Right. There's no toilet paper in here. As I don't want to stay here all night, you wouldn't mind...I don't know, sharing?"

When the stranger spoke again, he sounded almost appalled, as if offended by the very notion that Grantaire doubted that he'd assist him. "Of course! All you had to do was ask. Here--I don't suppose that that's enough, is it? Do you need more?"

Jesus fucking Christ, he was a saint too. Grantaire's inner cynic hissed at the generosity dripping off of his words, because honestly, people that nice and giving couldn't be real. 

And yet, Grantaire found himself blinking as practically half an entire roll was forced into his hands under the stall, and he had to thank God for whatever he had done right to deserve this encounter with Mr. Velvet Vocal Chords. "No. No, this is enough, this--thank you," he mumbled earnestly, hastily rushing to clean himself, so that he may leave quickly and not say something he would regret. "I'll just be going now. Thank you, again."

He received a hum in response, and it was probably the alcohol that made the noise sound almost fond. 

Washing his hands at the sink, he heard the toilet flush, and glanced up to see Apollo looking at him in the mirror. Gold hair, long and pulled in a neat ponytail, high cheekbones, broad shoulders...gorgeous blue eyes. (Like, really blue. R was a fucking artist, descriptions and colors were his life, but even then, all he could muster was 'holy shit, those are the bluest blues to have ever blued'.)

His Apollo gave him a scrutinizing stare. "Excuse me?" He asked, friendliness gone, that same, cautious tone coloring his voice as it had initially. 

It took Grantaire a moment to realize he'd spoken aloud. "What? Oh. Sorry. See, I'm really drunk right now, not thinking clearly, and--" he saw disappointment, and maybe disgust, (please just be the alcohol) flood the other's face, and for some reason that felt like a punch in the gut. Backtracking quickly, he added, "I'm sorry. It's just been a long evening. Look, I--I'm R. Grantaire. Grand R. Friends call me R. Not that--not that you're my friend...I mean, you could be? If you wanted to? I certainly wouldn't mind...Wait, fuck..."

No, pissing his pants was much less embarrassing than whatever it was that he was doing now. Bumbling like an idiot. 

This god-like male actually smiled at his stammering though, and Grantaire felt his heart stop as Apollo crossed to the faucet, washing his hands and standing mere inches away from the drunk cynic. If they bumped shoulders, R was pretty sure he'd thank him. 

"Enjolras," he said finally, drying his hands before focusing his attention fully on Grantaire. "Strange circumstances as they are, still a pleasure to meet you."

"Same," R echoed lamely, (no, he did not sound breathy) thinking idly about how pretty Enjolras' name would sound when he was screaming it in bed, and how nice it would feel to run his hands through his hair, and...and his phone was buzzing in his pocket. Probably 'Ponine, wondering where the fuck he was. 

Shit. He had to go. He said as much. 

"Can I get your number?" Grantaire blurted, before his courage was completely shot. Might as well. The worst Enjolras could do was say no. (though to be honest, it most definitely would be the worst thing for Grantaire. He wouldn't know how to react if he received a dismissal.)

He was truly surprised when Enjolras agreed and took his phone, tapping out small numbers into a new contact. Grantaire was utterly shocked when Enjolras had him do the same with his cell, feeling almost numb as the device was put back in his hand. He had Enjolras' number. And Enjolras had his. 

He was going to text the shit out of him. 

"I'll see you around," Grantaire said softly, trying to sound nonchalant. "It was nice meeting you. Thank you for saving my ass. Uh. Literally."

It most certainly was not the alcohol when Enjolras grinned at that.

**Author's Note:**

> My first Les Mis fic, and I'm proud of it. Enjolras and Grantaire hold such a dear place in my heart, so it's about time I wrote something about them instead of whatever the hell it is that I do. 
> 
> Come say hi to me on tumblr! At either jehan-poohbear, or piixelbitz.


End file.
